Impertinence
by Leila Secret-Smith
Summary: I'm surprised to hear the old assassin sigh instead of continue to scold me. "The Keeper and the Speaker are on their way," he says, his deep, rumbling voice unusually soft. "You must stay awake until they arrive, Amara." I hesitate, lick my lips, because I'm not sure that's a promise I can keep. "I'll try." Or, Amara bleeds out in a crypt and Lucien keeps her company. Two-shot.
1. Chapter 1

My uneven, rasping breaths echo weakly around the dimly-lit stone cavern; it's silent except for the quiet gurgle of the little stream I'm slumped in, unlike the loud, fevered battle that ended a scant five minutes ago. I've hit my head a little _too_ hard if the way my attention drifts and my vision blurs in and out is any indication. I know, somewhere in the back of my mind, that I've only been sitting here for a short time, but it feels like an eternity. As my eyesight comes back into focus, I try to take stock of my injuries again.

Broken ribs?

Check.

Magefire burns?

Check.

Broken or sprained wrist?

Check.

Multitude of bruises?

Check.

Several sluggishly bleeding and possibly poisoned cuts?

Check.

Concussion?

Check.

I snort in dark amusement, only to immediately regret it when my ribs flare in fiery agony. I'm going to die here, sprawled in a black little stream, surrounded by draugr corpses and one particularly irksome but extremely _dead_ necromancer. Well, there are worse ways to die, I suppose. At least I'm surrounded by evidence of my battle prowess.

…my nose itches.

Pale blue light suddenly washes over my surroundings, reflecting eerily off the lichen-covered stones and the stream's rippling surface; in some places, the light illuminates a much thicker, gooey red fluid that stains the rocks. A rather alarming amount of gooey red fluid, actually. _That_ can't be good.

" _Amara."_

"Hello, Lucien," I say distractedly. I attempt to lift one hand to relieve the itch on my nose but said hand only slides pathetically across the streambed to bump against my thigh.

I can't even lift my own hand.

The realization makes something like amused hysteria bubble up in my chest, and it's all I can do not to laugh aloud. Because if I start laughing, who's to say that's where it'll stop? I don't want to cry in front of Lucien; I'm the Listener, I'm supposed to be better than _that_.

" _What mess have you gotten yourself into this time, my littlest sister?"_ the spectral assassin asks without preamble, crouching on the balls of his feet in front of my slumped form. The water makes an odd pattern around his legs, as if it can't decide whether to pass through his ghostly form or part around it.

"Not my fault," I mumble defensively, struggling to keep my chin up. "I was doing fine until that dumb mage took me by surprise. 's dead now anyways."

" _And why, precisely, did you leave the Sanctuary without an escort?"_ It's normally quite difficult to see Lucien's facial features, what with his glowing, semitransparent blue form, but in the murky gray darkness of the crypt I can see one eyebrow rise sharply as he speaks. If he were corporeal, I'm sure his eyes would be flashing sternly. It reminds me so much of Alar that I'm struck speechless, mouth moving wordlessly. Divines, how long has it been since I last saw my flesh-and-blood brother? Two moons, at least. I should visit Whiterun soon.

I absolutely do _not_ scowl petulantly at Lucien as I drag my mind back to his question. "I am Mother's chosen, Brother," I manage at last, voice noticeably weaker. "I don't _need_ an escort." Well, that's not _really_ the reason I left alone, but Lucien doesn't need to know that. Actually, 'stormed out' would probably be a better description than 'left', but he doesn't need to know _that_ either. And he _definitely_ doesn't need to know that I barred the Black Door from the outside so that Cicero couldn't immediately follow me.

" _You are Mother's and Father's chosen,"_ the specter agrees, visibly unimpressed _, "which is exactly why you need an escort. You are also a mere fifteen winters, if you have forgotten."_ I get the impression that he knows exactly what I did earlier. Come to think of it, that's probably why he was sent; I certainly don't remember summoning him. The thought that he was sent conjures a certain image in my mind: the Nightmother, one hand braced against her forehead, eyes shut, exasperatedly sending Lucien out with the words _"go stop your little sister before she gets herself killed._ "

And alright, maybe this time I _do_ pout. "'s not like I _knew_ there was more than draugr here, Lucien," I mumble tiredly, chin dropping to my chest as my strength fails me. "…just wanted to kill something that didn't have a _contract_ on its head."

I'm surprised to hear the old assassin sigh instead of continue to scold me. " _The Keeper and the Speaker are on their way,"_ he says, his deep, rumbling voice unusually soft. _"You must stay awake until they arrive, Amara."_

I hesitate, lick my lips, because I'm not sure that's a promise I can keep.

"I'll try."

The specter sits down on his heels next to me and picks my not-broken hand up out of the shallow water, holding it carefully between his own. His not-quite-corporeal skin feels lukewarm against mine-a bad sign considering it _should_ feel deathly cold-and the odd tingling sensation that accompanies a spirit's touch spreads up to my elbow. I am intensely grateful for his grip; it grounds me, keeps me from drifting off into the darkness of my own thoughts. He draws circles across my knuckles with his thumb as we wait.

I stare down at our hands through half-lidded eyes. How odd it seems, to experience such gentleness from such a deadly and revered assassin. I stare hard, so hard that I swear can see the blood that stains our hands. His more than mine, of course, but I'm so much _younger_ that it would be truly alarming if we _did_ match. The blood mingles between our fingers, a hundred different shades of red, dripping silently into the stream below.

I blink and the illusion vanishes.

It wasn't accurate, no. The blood should have _gushed_ , not _dripped_ ; together, we have enough on our hands to flood this whole cavern.

" _Stay awake, little sister."_ He squeezes my hand tightly; I force my eyes open, even though I don't remember closing them. _"Stay awake just a little longer. They are almost here,"_ he promises.

My mind wanders away on a tangent. "Alar," I whisper thickly, forcing my heavy eyelids back up. My head lists to the side as I try-and fail-to lift my chin. "I'll have—have to visit… him soon."

" _Only if you stay awake,"_ Lucien whispers. One of his hands moves, his palm molding to the curve of my cheek. The accompanying sensations, the tingling and the not-quite-cold, are enough to revive me a bit.

"Awake," I slur in agreement, fighting the leaden weights that seem to drag my eyelids down. "Yeah… st-stay 'wake. Gotta… stay."

A thumb sweeps across the dark circle under my eye.

" _Have I ever told you the story of Mathieu Bellamont and the great treachery of Cheydinhal?"_

If I had just a little more strength, I would laugh. _Yes, big brother. You've told me this story._ But I don't have strength, not to laugh or to speak. So instead I manage a tiny shake of my head.

 _Tell me again anyways._

He recounts the tale, the account of his own gruesome demise, with the deadly seriousness of a historian. The words fade in and out; I lose the ability to truly comprehend him before he even reaches Bellamont's mother's death. It doesn't matter. His deep voice rumbles comfortingly in my ears, safe and familiar in a way only my biological brother's embrace can match.

At some point he stops the story, or maybe reaches the end. He's shouting through the buzzing in my ears; almost-warm hands shake my shoulders; bright blue light shines through my closed eyelids. It isn't enough; despite both our best efforts, I slip inexorably into the darkness.

For a long, fathomless time, I walk the razor's edge between darkness and void, soul bared, cocooned in warm shadow as only a child of Sithis can be. I am accompanied by nothing but the indistinct murmurs of the dead and vague but comforting impressions of _Mother_ and _Father_. The vagueness becomes slowly more distinct, as if I am regaining myself. _Stay with us,_ the void murmurs sweetly to me, twining in and out of my mind like ribbons of black silk. In spirit, I lean into the embrace. _Yes, yes I want to stay. I'll stay forever. I belong here._ They croon in triumph at my acquiescence, sliding through me, _binding_ me; I begin to fade away again, so lose myself, and-

"Amara."

The silent, alluring song is shattered by his voice, and I blink back to awareness in the middle of an inky void, feeling quite suddenly bereft. I find myself on my feet, clad in nothing but shadow and dried blood. My wounds are gone, and so is the pain, even when I stretch experimentally. I tear my eyes away from my unmarked but bloodstained skin and look to my brother, only to choke on my breath as I catch sight of him.

Sithis, he's _real_.

Or rather, he's corporeal. I can't help but stare in fascination, hands falling limply at my sides. Unlike me, he's dressed in modern Brotherhood robes, hood thrown back, complete with red finger wraps and soft black shoes. Now that he's not a semitransparent blue shade, I can tell that his skin is the usual Imperial tan, his hair dark and straight, pulled back at the nape of his neck; his nose is narrow and pointed, his eyes a soft, pale brown that seems wholly unsuited to a deadly assassin. He seems normal, like a man I would pass in the Whiterun market without a second glance; for some reason, that scares me more than his otherworldly appearance ever did.

"Lucien?" My tone is a good deal more confused and frightened than I meant it to be. "Am… am I…?"

 _Dead?_

"No." He sweeps forward with the same predatory grace he bears in the physical world, brotherhood robes swishing softly in the silence. His feet make no sound. "The Keeper and the Speaker reached you in time, little one. You are simply… waiting."

The odd double echo that his voice normally carries is gone; I find myself missing it.

"Have you come to wait with me, then?" I ask. My hand reaches out of its own accord and, after a second's hesitation, I poke the assassin in the shoulder. He feels solid and warm. Flesh and blood. Tangible.

Real.

"Indeed," he replies impassively, intercepting my hand before I can poke him again and interrupting my minor metaphysical crisis. "And _while_ we wait, we shall discuss your punishment."

My head snaps up abruptly, eyes widening alarm. "My what?" I splutter, trying in vain to free my wrist from Lucien's velvet-steel grasp.

"Did you think such childish impudence would remain unpunished, little sister?" There's a definite spark of amusement in his eyes, but the set of his brow is entirely stern. I duck my head sheepishly.

"I… No."

He delivers the news impassively. "You are confined to the sanctuary for a month. You will neither journey to Dawnstar, nor take on any contracts."

I rock back on my heels in dismay. "What! But—but I was going to visit Alar!"

"Nightmother's orders, Amara," Lucien adds at my protestation, patient but unyielding. I slump in defeat. How can I argue with that? Say 'no, Mother,' or 'I'm quitting the Dark Brotherhood, Mother,' or maybe 'you're not my _real_ mother?'

Hardly.

"Did you tell Nazir?" I ask, resigned.

Lucien smirks at me and finally releases my wrist; I scowl and rub it petulantly as he speaks. "No. I came to find you once I was certain they had arrived. You have the _privilege_ of telling them yourself." He glances around sharply, sensing something I cannot. "And soon, at that."

I glower at him and open my mouth to respond, but the void is suddenly filled with faint light.

"I'm waking up?" I ask, unexpected fear and loss churning in my gut as the soothing void fades under the deepening light.

Lucien nods, regarding me with inscrutable, hooded eyes. His corporeal form flickers to blue for a moment before reverting. He stares down at me, and something in his expression softens minutely.

"Safe passage, little Listener," he murmurs, using Cicero's nickname for me as he leans down and presses an unexpected kiss to my forehead. "Do not return to the void before your time, or I shall be… _displeased_."

Then the void fades away and I am whisked unwillingly from my brother and the soothing darkness, propelled back to the waking world and one very uncomfortable reality:

I'm going to have to tell Nazir and-Sithis save me- _Cicero_ that Mother grounded me.


	2. Chapter 2

I blink heavily as my blurry vision slowly comes into focus. It takes a long moment of staring, but I recognize the rough, green-tinged stone ceiling above me: I'm back in my quarters in the Dawnstar Sanctuary. The air is still and faintly damp, as usual, but I can also smell the thick, pungent scent Babette's healing paste and a faint undertone of coppery blood. I smack my lips and grimace at the bitter aftertaste of healing potions that lingers on the back of my tongue.

"Ugh," I mutter, wincing at the headache that springs up when I turn my head to the side. Cicero is asleep in a chair beside the raised dais upon which my bed sits, head tilted back as soft snores come from his slack mouth. I smile faintly; a line of drool is slowly working its way past the corner of his lips.

I tentatively move my arm, hissing slightly when my ribs protest at the movement. The breaks are gone, I can tell, but there remains the ubiquitous after-ache that only the strongest healing potions can erase. Still, I work past the throbbing pain and manage to lever myself upright, slumping tiredly against the headboard once I've succeeded. I reach carefully for the rolled-up scroll on the nightstand, recognizing it as a product of Babette's usual neat record keeping. Sure enough, the scroll contains a detailed summary of my injuries and the various potions, pastes, and spells she used to heal them.

"Little Listener!"

I start violently at Cicero's voice, dropping the parchment onto my lap. I stare at the newly-awoken Keeper, surprised that I was engrossed enough in the scroll to miss his return to consciousness. He bounds onto the dais, a joyful and relieved expression on his face. "The Little Listener is awake!" he crows, plopping down onto my bed. Unlike most of the other assassins, Cicero is not shy with his affection, and immediately begins to pepper my face with kisses.

"Gah, Cicero, stop!" I complain, shoving futilely at his chest. "I'm not twelve anymore! I'm too old for this!"

The jester clucks disapprovingly, blithely ignoring my squirming. "Little Listener is never too old for kisses," he declares, learning carefully over my legs to hug me. "Little Listener will always be _little_ Listener compared to Cicero." I scowl and give up on my escape attempts, grudgingly pressing my forehead to his shoulder; I know from experience that _nothing_ stops Cicero when he wants hugs.

" _Sithis_ - _sake_ , clown, let Amara go before you hurt her!"

"Nazir," I sigh in relief as Cicero releases me to pout at the Redguard, who enters my room with a bowl in one hand and a mug in the other. His irritated scowl changes to a smirk at my obvious relief; he pauses to set the bowl and mug down on my desk before mounting the dais.

"Glad to see you awake, Mar," he says, eyeing me seriously. "The ghost's warning was almost too late. You were in pretty rough shape by the time we got to you." His expression quickly morphs into one of irritation and worry-fueled anger. "By the sands, what were you _thinking_? Running off and playing dungeon-hero like that, you could have been _killed_!" I cringe under his ire, fiddling with the bedsheets and staring anywhere but at my Speaker.

"I know, I'm sorry," I mumble guiltily, realizing for the first time exactly how worried Nazir was.

"Don't you ever do anything like that again, Amara," he barks in response, apparently not placated. I hear him cross his arms over his chest and it doesn't take much imagination to know what his glare must look like. "Listener or not, I'm not going to let you put yourself in danger like that." Indignation sparks in my chest, but it's quickly smothered.

"That's not going to be a problem," I say, face flushing as I look up. "I, um, Mother… Mother says I'm confined to the Sanctuary for a month."

Cicero's eyes widen. Nazir opens his mouth, then shuts it with an audible click and a faintly stunned air. For a long moment neither make a sound.

"The Nightmother… grounded you?" He asks slowly, almost disbelievingly. "…really?"

My face must be red as a tomato, but I nod in confirmation. A few seconds of silence tick by before Cicero suddenly explodes in laughter, clutching at his stomach and toppling to the ground in an excessive display of mirth. I blush harder and bury my face in the bedsheets as Nazir also begins laughing, albeit in a more restrained manner.

"Yes, go ahead, laugh at your leader," I complain into the sheets, voice muffled. "It's not like she's _sitting here_ or anything."

Nazir regains himself first. "Forgive me, Amara," he gasps, wiping at his eyes, "but, _sands_ , if that isn't the funniest thing I've heard in a long while. Grounded by the Nightmother!" Cicero's howling laughter intensifies at the Redguard's words.

"It's not funny to _me,_ " I snap, glaring at the two grown men.

"Are you angering my patient?" Babette's dry voice comes from the doorway, and I experience another surge of relief as I see her standing there, hip cocked and eyebrow raised.

"Oh thank Sithis," I sigh. "Babette, tell them to leave me alone!"

Before she can reply, Cicero manages to choke out "Mother has grounded the Listener" before he resumes cackling. I wince, but the little vampire merely blinks in surprise and stares for a moment before shaking her head.

"That's no reason for you to upset her, Cicero," she says mildly, retrieving the bowl and mug Nazir neglected before joining the other assassins next to my bed. I smile gratefully as she hands me the mug, which is filled with a pain-numbing alcohol she developed herself; the bowl she sets upon the nightstand. I gulp down the bitter drink as Babette soaks some cloth strips in the bowl.

"So tell me what happened to you," she says as she carefully unwraps the bandages around my arms, exposing a few cuts that did not close all the way and confirming my theory that some had been poisoned. I relate my experience in the crypt as she smears paste on the lacerations and covers them with the soaked cloths before wrapping them in fresh, dry dressings. Nazir comments at various points in the story, and even Cicero quiets in order to listen. By the time I finish, my wounds are all freshly dressed and sleep is tugging insistently at my eyelids; Babette's concoctions never do things halfway. The ever-young assassin smirks at me as she dumps the soiled bandages in the bowl and picks it up, along with my empty mug.

"Good job, Amara," she says with the air of a proud older sister. "You're damn lucky it wasn't worse, but good job. Now, I don't want to see you out of bed for the next two days. Some of that poison is still working its way out of your system."

"Whatever you say, Babette." I yawn halfway through the statement, a wave of deep tiredness overwhelming me. Cicero is kind enough to help me lay down before Babette shoos the men from the room. I dimly hear the door close as I drift off; just before I succumb entirely, a new presence appears and settles silently down beside my bed.

I smile faintly as pale blue light shines through my eyelids.


End file.
